


Cool Air

by ShippingAllShips



Series: Tomarry/Harrymort [16]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Horror, Lovecraftian Horror, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 00:58:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17132000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippingAllShips/pseuds/ShippingAllShips
Summary: “Surely that is fiction,” Harry said, though he couldn’t help but be amused. “Science and medicine have come far, but not so far as to replace body parts or stave off death.”“Nonsense.” Doctor Riddle said, setting his stethoscope onto the coffee table. It was a dark and elegant as the rest of the furniture. “I am a fine example of it. For the past eighteen years, I’ve been plagued with a plethora of medical conditions that have left me bound to my room. And yet, I am still alive and well simply because I wish to be. It’s a simple case of mind over matter; I do not wish for my condition to overtake me and it has yet to.”Follows the story of the Lovecraft story by the same name.....except gayer.





	Cool Air

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Wolf_of_Lilacs for betaing!

People often made fun of his fear of the cold, akin his reaction to smelling something that repulsed him; how he shuddered when he walked out of the sunlight and into a cooled building, how he always ordered his drinks without ice and preferable a bit warm, why the sight of an artificial cooling machine often left him shivering and frozen with terror.

He was sure, that if they knew why they wouldn’t be laughing as they did.

*~*

When Harry had first moved from London to New York, with hopes of finding a better life far away from his horrible aunt and uncle, he had been met with moderate success. He had gotten a job at the local newspaper, writing small columns and articles intermediately. The pay was not good, and he found it difficult to find housing that would accept him on such a small salary, let alone allow him to keep payments up. 

He managed to find one a week after his move, an old mansion built in the early eighteen hundred and held the same look. It was made of brimstone, four stories in height, with grime covering the outside and fading wallpaper within. The landlady, short and stout and very toad-like, was unpleasant but professional as she led him to his room: a one-bedroom apartment with a small kitchen and adjourning bathroom, and far more spacious than Harry had assumed for the price. 

Of course, it had its faults. The hot water tended to turn cold too fast, if it ever was hot to begin with, and the furniture that had come with the room— a pullout couch, table, and a chair—were stained with things he would rather not know the origin of. There was a smell too, one that he could not place, thick and musty and rotten. It vanished a few days after his move, but it still lingered sometimes.

It wasn’t ideal, but he supposed that he could have done worse. The neighbors were quiet and didn’t bother him aside from a friendly hello when they passed one another and the neighbor above was, for the most part, quiet; Harry never once heard his footfalls and only occasionally heard the sound of something dropping onto the floor.

It had not been a bother until his third week in the complex, when he had awoken one morning to the sounds of steady dripping within his apartment and, once he had glanced around the room, had found something thick and clear seeping from one corner of his ceiling. His nose curled at the smell of ammonia in the air, thick and unbearable, and he hastily made his way to the ground floor to speak to the landlady, who assured him she would take care of it. 

“Doctor Riddle,” the landlady had mumbled, her hands holding up her long pink skirts as she ascended the stairs before Harry, much quicker than he thought for someone of her size. “Must have spilled his chemicals again. Man can’t take care of himself, despite his illness. Takes baths all day, you know, for his condition, whatever it is. He’s so secretive about it, won’t let a soul help him no matter how bad it gets, and always has his neighbor running errands for him, fetching his groceries and chemicals and medicine and laundry. I’ve only ever seen the man out on the roof in the evenings and when he came to rent the place. A peculiar man, you know. Handsome, but very strange. And quite famous with the English and French immigrants. I heard one of them congratulating him on his excellent work in Albania, though I hadn’t ever heard of him before he came here. But don’t you worry about the spill, dearie, I’ll have it taken care of.”

His insides had coiled at the pet name, sounding far too sweet and fake coming from her large mouth, and he forced a polite smile at her ramblings, wanting nothing more than for her to be gone and was pleased to watch her disappear to the floor above.

Once he had entered his room, he was pleased to see that the dripping had stopped and he made to clean it up, opening the window to air the place out. Above him, he could the landlady’s heavy footsteps and, now that he listened, the soft footfalls of his neighbor as well as the steady rumble of a gas powered machine. He had never noticed the sound before, having registered it as mere background noise, too soft and entirely unnoticeable over the sounds of the city outside. 

He wondered, as he moped up the foul liquid from the floor, what could possibly have taken hold of the man living above him, to leave him bound to his apartment. He entertained the thought that perhaps there was no illness and the man simply was playing them all for a fool. He wondered what type of doctor he was, as Harry had never heard the name before. 

But it wasn’t his business, he supposed. The man was quiet and, aside from this incident, had never been much of a bother to Harry. He was well to leave the man to his own devices.

*~*

Harry would never have made acquaintance with the queer doctor above had it not been for a rather stifling day in mid-June, around mid-morning when his heart suddenly decided to have a fit. He had been warned by his physician before leaving England that such spells might happen, the change in climate and stress might not be too well for his heart, and that immediate medical attention would be required if such a fit happened. He recalled the landlady’s rambling from a few weeks ago, about the room-bound doctor on the next floor, and hurried up the stairs to the room just above his.

His feeble and frantic knocks were met with a rather rich and curious voice on the other side, asking for his name and business, which he hastily gave. The door opened a moment later and he shivered as the cool air hit his face, a stark contrast to the blistering hallway, and he stepped within.

The room that greeted him was far more immaculate than Harry had expected, given where it was located; its fading wallpaper covered in diagrams and large paintings of faraway places, and the floor was made of wood, with several large rugs covering it. The furniture that littered the room was all leather and dark wood, artfully arranged to resemble a study more than a seedy boarding room, and a small kitchenette like Harry’s own, though much tidier. He could see, through an open door that led to another room, that there was a small laboratory sat up in an adjacent room, one that held an assortment of bottles and machines, almost directly above where the spill had happened several weeks ago. Doctor Riddle had taste, he could see, in both décor and appearance.

The man before him was a bit taller than himself, no more than an inch or two, and dressed in a slightly formal suit, fitted to his body and far too elegant for the building he resided within. His face spoke of aristocratic elegance and lineage, and his eyes, dark and almond shaped, were sharp and intelligent. His hair, a dark shade of brown, was curled neatly against his head and was streaked with gray, more heavily along his temples and hairline, though his face was free of age lines, giving him the appearance of a much younger man. He was clean-shaven and smelled heavily of cologne, though not enough to repulse him, and he felt his heart skip a beat when the doctor’s eyes roamed over him, attempting to figure out the problem before Harry could tell him.

He was more handsome than the landlady had implied, and yet, as Harry stood in the doorway of the Doctor Riddle’s room, revulsion curled deep within his gut and anxiety crawled up his spin. It was ridiculous to feel such a way, the man’s outward appearance held no indication for such a feeling, though his lividly inclined expression and the cold hand that guided Harry into his room could be base for the repulsion, yet he could not shake the nerves that were crawling beneath his skin; it was primal, an instinct deep within his mind that told him there was something not right about the man before him, something unnatural and dangerous that put him on edge, something that begged for him to turn and run as far from the room as he could get.

The feeling subsided when Doctor Riddle ushered him into his room, quickly being overtaken with admiration as the doctor began to work on him. It had only taken a glance to know what was wrong and the man worked quickly to remedy it, his hands, so cold and bloodless in appearance, surprisingly steady as he treated Harry.

His voice, if hollow and timbreless and holding a surprising London accent, was soothing, easing Harry’s mind. He chatted ideally, perhaps to distract Harry from his own seizing, and for that he was grateful; the distraction was more than welcome and Harry was fascinated with all the doctor had to say. He spoke of his own theories on life and medicine as he walked around his room, disappearing briefly into his lab to retrieve a small vile and syringe, which he hastily administered into Harry’s chest, just where his heart would be.

“The will of the mind is often stronger than the flesh,” Doctor Riddle assured him as he listened to Harry’s now steady heartbeat. “If one wishes it, they could simply will themselves to live long past the expiration date of their own bodies, should the conditions be right. Perhaps one day, modern medicine would even be able to replace your faulty heart with one much more stable, one made of machine instead of flesh and blood, or you could simply will yourself to be healthy.”

“Surely that is fiction,” Harry said, though he couldn’t help but be amused. “Science and medicine have come far, but not so far as to replace body parts or stave off death.”

“Nonsense.” Doctor Riddle said, setting his stethoscope onto the coffee table. It was a dark and elegant as the rest of the furniture. “I am a fine example of it. For the past eighteen years, I’ve been plagued with a plethora of medical conditions that have left me bound to my room. And yet, I am still alive and well simply because I wish to be. It’s a simple case of mind over matter; I do not wish for my condition to overtake me and it has yet to.”

He had gone on to say, jokingly, the one day he could teach Harry how to live without a heart—either literally or through some conscious effort. Harry had laughed at that, finding it amusing if not a bit disturbing; it was science and medicine, he knew, and talk of things such as that was not unheard of. Death was the fear of most in the community and the want to stave it off for as long as possible was not uncommon.

Harry had chosen that moment to inquire about the doctor’s illness, something that the landlady had only briefly touched upon and had received a rather queer smile. It was complicated, he said, a series of ailments that required that he keep himself within the constant cold. Any rise in temperature would be, if prolonged, be fatal, and he kept his room at 55 or below in order to avoid such a fate; the small lab and bathroom being the only acceptations, as to avoid the risk of freezing the water within them. He had explained the cooling system to Harry as well, the strange machine that kept his room cold and that Harry could faintly hear from his own, a simple gasoline-powered engine that pumped cool air into the room due to an absorption system of ammonia. 

It was truly fascinating, hearing the man speak, but he was still relieved when he finally exited that frigid room and into the warm hall, the nerves he could not shake finally vanishing. He often found himself returning to Doctor Riddle’s home after this, wearing a thick overcoat, to chat with the strange hermit. The man seemed to enjoy his company, to finally have someone to talk to after all his years of illness imposed solitude, and he often rambled about things: his own personal theories on life and death, explanations of common ailments and their treatments, of secret experiments and their ghastly results, an explanation of the ingredients that littered his lab and an explanation of their purposes, of doctors and scientist he had met in his life. 

He often spoke of an older man named Albus Dumbledore, a doctor as well, who had assisted him in earlier experiments, the ones that he had sought to cure his illness some eighteen years ago; the man had unfortunately died soon after the experiment, the strain of what he had to do too great for him to bear, far too grizzly and perhaps a bit unethical for the doctor to share. It had been successful, the side-affects withstanding, and he spoke so fondly of the man that Harry was touched that he would share such a tale with him; the other man had obviously been very important to him.

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that, Doctor.” Harry had said, his hand resting comfortingly on Doctor Riddle’s knee. He could feel the coolness of the doctor’s flesh through his jeans and a chill ran up his spine. “He must have been a great man, to try and cure you.”

“He was.” Doctor Riddle agreed, his eyes flicking down to Harry’s hands on him. “Please, call me Tom. You come here often enough, I would say we are good friends now, don’t you?”

Harry felt himself flush but did not let go of the doctor’s knee, offering another squeeze as his eyes locked with Harry’s own, half-lidded and smoldering. “Of course, Tom. We are very good friends.” 

*~*

“Would you mind helping me bathe today, Harry?” Tom asked one evening, startling Harry with the suddenness of the question. “The neighbor’s boy is out for the night, staying at a friend’s, and I’m afraid that there are some things that require the help of another; I’m far too weak to lift most of it myself and I would be grateful if you were to help.”

“I would love to,” Harry answered before he could process the question fully, and he felt his throat close at the thought, his heart rate picking up drastically. He knew he was attracted to the doctor, there was no denying that, and it felt wrong to accept such an offer; Tom simply thought he was being a good friend, helping his aging companion, and he would be taking the moment to admire Tom’s naked and bare body.

He opened his mouth to object, but was silenced by the pleased smile Tom gave him. It made his heart skip a beat and the protests died in his throat, and he found himself following the directions Tom gave him, hauling several heavy buckets from Tom’s little lab into the bathroom. The room was similar to his own, the yellowing and stained wallpaper beginning to peel away and a stain on the floor that seemed to reside in every room within the place; the only thing that surprised him was the tub, the outside covered in grim but within was perfectly pristine, the porcelain shinning so strangely in the seediness of the bathroom.

Tom directed him to pour them into the tub and moved to unbutton his shirt, and Harry hastily turned around. He opened the bucket and tried very hard not to think about the doctor undressed behind him, the sound of his clothing being the only sounds Harry heard; his nerves were quickly forgotten when he smelled the mixture within, his nose curling. It smelled heavily of chemicals and alcohol, the most pungent smell being that of the liquid he had seen the doctor dipping his medical equipment in one evening, and had the constancy of oil when he managed to tip the bucket into the tub.

Once he had managed to get the second bucket poured, a bit surprised with how much liquid was being held within, he felt Tom brush past him and enter the tub. He did his best to look away, wanting to give the older man his privacy, but he found his eyes straying back to him, unwilling to give up an opportunity of seeing him bare, and he found himself staring. 

There was a long scar on his front, one that ran from his collarbone and down below the water line, where Harry was determined not to look; he had a feeling it ran down more than would be appropriate to look and he was not going to betray his friend's trust by looking too far.

A small towel was held out to him, forcing him from his staring. “Please do not leave a single spot uncovered; it’s always a pain to lay within this tiny tub and much easier to just rub it on myself.”

He nodded and accepted the towel, moving to kneel beside his friend and dipping it into the water. The liquid was like ice, perhaps a few degrees above freezing, and Harry shivered at the feeling of it on his skin. It burned slightly, similar to undiluted bleach, not unbearable but most certainly not pleasant either. He dragged the towel over the doctor’s skin as directed, a bit surprised to see that the liquid rested on it, not moving or seeping into his skin. He continued to do as directed, watching as Tom idly splashed the liquid on his arms and torso, seeming unbothered by the sting, and rubbed it into his flesh. 

He bit his lip as he continued to work, choosing to focus on the scars that littered the doctors back. There were a few, none quite like the one on his front, the largest one running along his spine, from mid-back up to his hairline, and a smaller one on his shoulder. There was one more that he could see that wrapped around his waist, and he chose not to follow it when it dipped lowly.

“What happened?” Harry asked, curiosity eating at him as his hand touched the mark on the doctor’s spin; it was smooth beneath his touch and colder than the other parts of Tom.

Tom was silent for a moment and Harry continued to run the towel over his back, conceding that he would not be getting an answer when he suddenly spoke. “To save someone from their demise requires sacrifice. My body was one of them and the freedom to move out in the world without fear of my condition worsening; I have ruined myself for it and made an enemy of death because of it.”

Harry felt a chill run up his spin that he knew had not been because of the coolness of the room and nodded, removing his hand from the mark to run the towel over it instead. It had to do with his ailment, the work the other doctor had done all those years ago to save him; the questionable methods that had left him scared and ill. He did not wish to upset his friend with more questions, so he allowed the subject to drop.

“May I ask how old you are exactly?” Harry asked instead, dipping his hands into the liquid below and dragging them over Tom’s shoulder, rubbing the fluid gently into his skin; it was much more efficient than using the towel, he told himself, his hands easily gliding over Tom’s pale skin and lingering on a particularly nasty looking scar on his shoulder.

“I celebrated my sixty-third birthday last year,” Tom responded simply, leaning into Harry’s touch and making a pleased sound.

“You most certainly do not look it,” Harry said, a bit in awe. He would have placed the doctor in his mid-forties, perhaps early fifties, his lineless face making it difficult to place him but his gray hair giving Harry an idea. “You must tell me your secret one day. I long to look as nice as you at such an age.”

Tom offered him a strange smile. “One day I’ll tell you. Perhaps on the same day I teach you to live without a heart.”

Harry wasn’t sure how he was supposed to reply, so he did not, continuing to rub the liquid into Tom’s back with delecacy and enjoying the comfortable silence between them.

*~*

It was tricky, for men like Harry, to decide if someone was like him. There were hints, clues, subtleties he could do, a coy smile here, a gaze there, a touch that lingered too long to be friendly. But in the end, there was no way for him to truly know, and not knowing when making a move could lead to, at best, disaster and at worst, death.

He took a chance one temperate summer night, knocking on the doctor’s door and calling out his name, hearing a soft invitation for him to come in. He did so eagerly and was greeted by the doctor lounging on his couch, a book in one hand and a cup of tea resting on the table. It was no longer steaming, Harry noticed as he moved to sit beside his friend. Tom moved his feet to allow him to sit beside him and he sat perhaps a bit too close, their knees almost pressed together and their knees touching. 

Harry licked his lips. “I’m sorry to bother you at such a late hour, Doctor.”

“It’s not bother, Harry. Would you like a cup of tea?” Tom said, as polite and cordial as always, offered him with a small smile. Harry could see now that some lines were forming on his face, his body finally seeming to catch up with his age.

“I’m afraid this isn’t a social call,” Harry responded and Tom frowned.

“Oh, what seems to be the problem?” Tom said, moving to stand and Harry’s hand darted out, grabbing his own and stopping him. “It’s not your heart again, is it? I was sure that had been cured weeks ago.”

“No, I’m afraid I’ve been inflicted with another terrible illness, Doctor,” Harry said, his eyes half-lidded and voice low as he spoke, his hand still holding Tom’s. It was almost unbearably cold and was thankfully warming beneath his touch.

“Oh? And what might that be?” Tom asked just as low, his eyes straying to their still joined hands, making no move to pull away. “Last I checked, you were in good health. What sort of infliction could it be?”

“I fear that this is more physical. My heart thumps wildly in my chest at the most inopportune of times, my head becomes light and dizzy and here—” He took the hand still clasped in his own and turned it, pressing it against his groin. He shuddered at the cold radiating from Tom’s flesh, but still kept his voice low. “Becomes unbearably stiff at times.”

“I see.” Tom breathed, and Harry let out a low groan when Tom’s hands squeezed him. “You seem to be fine right now, though I can feel some hardness. When do these occurrences usually happen? In the morning or later on throughout your day?”

“They seem to happen in the evenings, sir.” Harry had to fight to keep his voice from cracking, Tom’s hands so cold and delicious against his steadily growing erection. “When I visit a good friend of mine. Do you think that he could perhaps help cure this since he seems to be the cause of it all?”

“I think he would be more than happy to help.”

Tom was on him then, pressing Harry into the couch as his hand cupped Harry’s face, drawing their lips together in a kiss as cold as the hand against him. He shuddered at the feeling, gasping when Tom’s tongue slipped into his mouth, so cold and tasteless, and whining when Tom squeezed him through his pants once more.

So close to him now, pressing as close as he could, he could smell the strange scent that was Tom; his skin smelled heavily of menthol and the disinfectant he used for his medical tools, the faint smell of unknown chemicals that lingered on him, and the foreign lotions that he often applied to his skin. Harry found that he did not mind the smell; it was unpleasant when a particularly strong scent of chemicals hit his nose, but was quickly being drowned out by the smell of menthol.

Tom pulled away for a moment, his fingers easily undoing the buttons on his pants and pushing them now low on his thighs, Harry eagerly lifting his hips to assist him and shuddering at the cool air that hit his erection. 

“Would you like a blanket?” Tom asked, his lips cold against Harry’s own. “You’ll be much warmer that way.”

“You could turn off the air.” Harry breathed and Tom laughed, light and with a slight hiss to it.

He pulled away from Harry then, moving just far enough away to undo his own clothing and set them on the floor with great care, something that amused Harry as he removed his own clothing, though he chose to toss his, uncaring of where it landed.

Tom pressed back against him, his body was cold as ice and Harry shivered at the feeling of Tom’s length against his leg, cold as the rest of him. It was the room, he told himself, that had made Tom so cold. He spent so long up here, in the frozen tundra that he called his room, that his body was naturally acquitted to it. He noticed, a bit disappointedly, that Tom did not seem to be as interested as Harry was; Tom seemed to notice his disappointment and drew Harry in for another kiss.

“I can’t get too excited. It might be my death,” Tom whispered against his lips, his teeth catching Harry’s bottom lip and earning a gasp. “But don’t worry, I’ll take very good care of you. I wouldn’t want you to suffer more from this unfortunate illness that has taken hold of you.”

Harry felt a shiver run up his spine as Tom’s hand began to move, steadily pumping him as his mouth attached itself to Harry’s collarbone, biting and sucking in places that his shirt would very easily hide. It was disappointing that he could not walk in public baring the marks Tom left on him as proudly as others his age did; there were already nasty rumors circulating about the two of them, and he did not need to add fuel to the fires, lest something horrible come of it.

Tom’s mouth moved down him, over his stomach and to his erection, which he took into his mouth with little teasing. Harry shivered at the feeling of Tom’s mouth around him, cold as ice and lazily sucking on him; it was a strange feeling, Tom’s mouth slowly warming up around him, and he was surprised that he was still hard, even with Tom’s icy fingers playing with what wasn’t in his mouth and bullocks. 

He did not last long after that, managing to give Tom a small whine as a warning. Tom pulled away from him at that, his hands working quickly on Harry and tongue finishing off with a few flicks. He was still coming down from his high when he felt Tom’s tongue, so much colder than the air, sliding across his stomach, cleaning up the mess he had made of himself.

He shivered at the feeling and gently grabbed the doctor’s hair, dragging him up for another kiss, one that he seemed all to eager to supply. He pulled away for a moment, giving Harry a small smile that Harry returned. 

*~*

He worried greatly for his dear friend in the coming weeks. His complex, already livid and hollow, had seemed to worsen; his skin, once a healthy pale, now was almost the color of a corpse, and his eyes almost sunken and darkened in a way that made his skin crawl. His voice was becoming hollow and indistinct, a slight hiss to his words, and his hands shook as he worked, the steadiness of his motions long gone. Harry often found himself dreading when the doctor would open the door to his room, the same primal fear that he had felt when he had first looked upon the doctor returning.

He was unwell, perhaps near his end, and Harry had gently suggested one evening that they quit their trysts, as it was likely doing more harm than good for the man; Tom had balked at the suggested and insisted that that was not the cause of this, and had taken to proving his point by doing things to Harry that would make a streetwalker blush. He had, much to his shame, relented after that, not wanting to put a strain on their relations by continuing to insist they stop; if his friend believed he was well enough to continue, then Harry would not stop him, though he had made sure that such things only happened once or twice a week, as to not put too much strain on him.

His room had taken on a strange smell as well, unlike the odor that seemed to linger within the rest of the building; this was heavier, mustier, and Harry’s stomach churned every time he entered his friends room. Tom developed a love for exotic spices and incenses after the smell had made itself known, could only cover up so much, and they blended horribly, the room smelling of spice and the chemical baths he now took unaided and the musk that was within. His increase for cold air increased with the smell, and with Harry assistance, an increase in ammonia piping allowed for such; his room was a chilling 28 by the time they were done, the bathroom and lab being less chilled as to not freeze water.

His room was beginning to take on an air of abject panic and detached horror, morbid and outré, and his talk of death was unnerving and off-putting. Once, when Harry had suggested that perhaps he make some funeral arrangements, he had laughed hollowly and given Harry another one of his strange smiles. It was a strange thing to think about, Tom dying so soon after they had started their tryst, but he long since accepted it; the man was much older than him, a good thirty years his senior, and death was an inevitability of life no matter how long one tried to prolong it.

“That won’t happen, love,” He had assured, but his voice had been hollow and cold, a strange undertone to it as well. “I won’t let it happen. Death will have to take me when I’m not looking, for I won’t be going quietly.”

The neighbor’s boy, who had often run out to get things for Tom, had been banned by his mother from coming over after his father, who had been assisting him with a large order, had glanced at Tom’s face and had fallen into a fit; Tom had treated him for this, keeping well from the man’s line of sight, and once the mother came to pick up her husband, she had crossed herself and swiftly left, not allowing her son to step anywhere near the apartment. 

Harry had found himself running errands for Tom instead, often balking at the items he requested and wondering how such a small boy had managed to carry everything on the list to begin with. There was never a request for food on these lists, Harry had noticed, and never had he seen Tom eating or drinking since the smell had occurred; he did not seem to be suffering because of this, almost as if he was keeping himself alive through the power of will alone. He had suggested that Tom perhaps see a physician about this, as he knew the doctors sudden disinterest in food would most certainly lead to death, and Tom had been furious at the suggestion; the suggestion was what Tom had needed, as some of his previous vigor had returned even if he had seemed unusually concerned with his own initial outburst.

He had taken to writing long documents, his handwriting elegant despite the shaking of his hands and sealed them before Harry could read what they contained. He had instructed Harry to mail should anything happen to him, his refusal to reference his own death not unnoticed by Harry, and hard proved him the funds to do so; Harry was grateful, as some of them were as far off as Russia and India, one even to be sent as far down as the artic. One name Harry had recognized and had been bemused by it; the physician to his knowledge had died several years before and had several memorials in his honor, one even being in the local medical section of the science museum. 

Everything came to a head one hot August night when the cooling system in his room had malfunctioned. He had awoken Harry by banging hurriedly on his door and together they had attempted to find a solution, a slew of curses falling from Tom’s mouth that surprised Harry with its viciousness and lifeless rumble. He learned that it was a fruitless effort when he summoned a mechanic from a twenty-four-hour garage and that nothing could be done until the morning; a new piston was required, one that the shop did not have in stock nor the time to install at the moment. Tom had been furious, fear and panic seeming to swell in the room as his body spasmed and his hands clasped tightly over his eyes, rushing to his lab and slamming the door behind himself. He returned a few minutes later, groping his way out of the room with his eyes tightly wrapped. 

The fidgety of the room had decreased when dawn finally broke, the room now the same temperature as the outside world and the doctor locked himself in the bathroom, ordering Harry to bring him ice as he could get from the all-night convenience stores and cafeterias. On particularly unsuccessful endeavors, he could hear splashing within and his friends panicked demands for more ice.

He contracted a man he had met on the street corner a bit after morning to keep a constant supply for Tom while he desperately searched for the piston; no shop had any in stock, he was distressed to learn, and when he finally managed to find a shop that carried what he needed all the way across town, it was well past noon. His frustration was mounting when he finally managed to find two men who would be willing to install the part for him, though he found the price to be unreasonably high, and made his way back to the boarding house.

His return was met with utter turmoil, his neighbors running about in wild panic and he could see a man crouched in the corner, rocking himself back and forth with a rosary clutched tightly in his hands, muttering what he recognized as the Lord's prayer in Latin. Fiendish things were afoot, the man had conceded when Harry had roused him; it seemed that the man who he had hired to bring ice having being overcome with curiosity and peaked into the bathroom, only to run screaming a moment later. He could not have locked the door behind him as he fled, yet when curious neighbors, drawn out by both the screams and horrid smell, had gone to investigate, they found the door locked tight from the other side.

The landlady had made her best attempts at opening the door beforehand, using the spare key she kept for such emergencies, but it appeared to be bolted from the other side and the landlady had resolved to break the door down. The windows and doors of all rooms on the hall had been opened in preparation, as the smell coming from beneath the door was becoming more unbearable as the minutes ticked by. 

It took one swift kick from one of the men Harry had hired, near the handle, to cause the door to splinter in, then the other man shouldered it near the top, where the bolt was likely held. The door flung open easily and several men, Harry included, gagged as the smell hit them with full force; it reminded Harry of a butcher’s shop, the smell of death and carnage and slightly rotting meat.

There was a trail of dark and sticky liquid leading from the bathroom and to a desk, where a stained letter lay, a small puddle of red liquid pooling beneath it. The trail continued from there and ended unceremoniously in a puddle on the couch.

What lay on the couch, a horrible mass of viscous red and white, he did not want to say and would rather forget, but he knew the smell of it would never leave him; it smelled of meat, long rancid and rotting, and he heard several men gag behind him. He understood, swallowing down his own bile as he rushed from the room in haste, wanting to never set foot within again. He only had half a mind to quickly grab the letter from the table before he hastened his retreat, not wanting to know what he contained but knowing it was meant for him.

He didn’t want to believe what the landlady and the other tenants, himself included, had reported to the police, the descriptions and words used, nor the words that had been scrawled across the blood smeared note and the smell of carnage that had clung to it. 

He burned all the notes, the letter, everything that Tom had given him. Sitting on the roof, refusing to re-enter his room—no one had faulted him for it, Tom’s own neighbors refusing to enter their rooms as well—with an old barrel he had drug up from the alleyway below. He assessed each letter carefully, taking in the names on the people on the front, the locations that they all resided in, before lighting each and tossing them into the steadily growing flames.

He looked at the letter currently in his grasp, written only yesterday, the addresses hastily scrawled across the top to Russia, to a doctor long thought to be dead. He tossed them within the flames, watching as they curled and dissolved within the dancing flame. His mind flashed to what he had seen on the couch, the thing that Tom had become, and he shivered as the wind picked up, his stomach churning. 

The note, the words that had been hastily scrawled across the page, flashed in his mind.

_ The end is near. It’s too warm now. The man saw me and ran, no more ice. Tissues can’t last this long in the heat. It was a good theory, what I had told you months ago, about willpower and organs lasting long after they had expired. It couldn’t hold, a gradual deterioration I had not taken into account. Dr. Dumbledore knew and the shock of success killed him. He couldn’t bear it—he had to keep me in a strange and dark place, keeping me cool and in my mixture as he minded my notes and nursed me back. I should have known the organs would never work again after that; it was a fools dream. Do you understand, my love? It had to be done my way, the artificial preservation that I should have known he couldn’t archive, for I died on that day eighteen years ago. _ _   
_

**Author's Note:**

> :) wow can't believe Harry fucked a zombie. weirdo.


End file.
